Power and Control
by Hypertown
Summary: There's a house on a hill, battered and blood spattered. He is the capricious guest to her unwilling host
1. Chapter 1

The lights burned bright, lamp shades thrown into a corner in a nervous haste. There was no music, no television or conversation to fill the empty house, just the wheezing and groans of old walls and floorboards. Amanda pressed herself further into the corner, blade clutched tightly in her shaking grasp. Hair matted and wild, eyes frantic, she waited. How long had it been? She'd stopped looked at the clock, finding solace instead in the thumping of her own heart, so sure and steady that it felt to her like a hammer upon cloth. When would he be here? He would come for her, that much was certain. She had no idea who he would be when he arrived however, how he would enter or what he would do once he found her. Maybe he wouldn't even remember her; maybe he had found someone else to carry his burden. The knife slacked in her damp palms at the thought, her fingers resumed clenching though as soon as the traitorous hope fled and was replaced with a wave of guilt. There would never truly be separation and he would never find a stand in, someone equal in loyalty.

When the men with guns came she had torn apart the loose floorboards, lying beneath the feet of her intruders. Her split and bleeding fingers were cradled against her lips, the cooling blood a small comfort as her parents screamed. She had listened for his voice amongst the hungry throng and had found no purchase, no stuttered tone to cry desperately to. She had been certain that her youth and relation to one of them would spare her but when they had begun to snarl her name, shouting into the dark recesses of the house, she had wallowed in her misgivings. Her chest had heaved painfully against the rough wood, throat bubbling with vomit as her mother lay dying inches above. Her moans and hysterical tears only punctuated by the gasp of "Amanda". Her heart slowly broke as she realized her contused and bleeding mom thought she was dead. A battered hand reached out to the small crack of light, thick hot tears pooling at her neck. After the gruff voices had disappeared, the death rattle of her parents a distant, distinct memory, she had screamed. It had been brutal and agonizing, her throat tearing and vocal cords ripped. Her palms slammed desperately at the floor above her, forehead pressed till her neck ached. The boards lifted with a groan as she scrambled out, slipping in congealed blood as she gulped the death tinged air. Indeed there was an odour to the final act, the thick coppery bite of blood, the pungent ooze of bowels and the distinct after taste of terror. It was then that she had reached for the fallen knife, crusted with crimson, and huddled into the juncture of the walls. Nausea and adrenaline seared her veins, thick and acrid like battery acid. She noticed then the lights burning from every direction. Her home was alight, alive, smoldering in her betrayal. They had torn off the lamp shades for no conceivable reason but she suffered none the less in the burning carnage.

A creak interrupted her tortured inner monologue, she pressed deeper into the junction. Her legs buckled as she tried to rise, hand crabbing against the torn wallpaper. A small groan slow and steady from the stairs, her intruder was careful but quick making fast work of the entrance way. The pounding pulse now erratic. He knew his way around the house, checking bathrooms and bedrooms. She could hear him quietly speaking her name, could almost see him peering hopefully through each frame. It was him he was here. She wouldn't call out, he would find her soon and she would have no idea what to do. It was so simple to wait, to be sure that his cruelty would fall on those more deserving. Breath frozen in aching lungs, she sat.

"Amanda?" He was there, not just in the room, not just as her savior. It was the boy she recognized, irrevocably changed and badly misshapen.

"Oh god did they-" He was on his knees in front of her, gripping her blood and sweat soaked shirt, searching for an injury he wouldn't find. She shook her head numbly. Her head kept moving on its own accord however and was only stilled when his calloused hands stilled her cheeks.

"Amanda look at me. Where are mom and dad?" She nodded this time, reaching up to clutch his forearms. He was covered in tattoos, her nail scratched at the blue ink twisting up to his shoulder. "Stop nodding, why are you nodding? Where are they?" He shook her lightly.

How could she speak? Her tongue too thick and lips too cold to form the syllables, to sputter out the vowels, esophagus too raw, nothing worked like it should. She was stuck beneath their boots, unable to claw her way out, unwilling to die beside her family. He was frustrated with her silence she knew, she slid her gaze over to the puddle of hardened blood before staring back at him, red eyes rimmed with tears. He turned around, taking in the scene. He stood and walked over to the hole in the floor, to her coffin. His boots made obscene smacking sounds through the damp. He was gone then, running to her father's study, a tortured cry found him then.

She was unaware that time could fragment, split in two and take vastly different directions. In one life she stayed in the corner, she died in the horror. Andrew consumed her other reality, grabbing her roughly and leaving the room. She tore at his back, kicked and flailed and sobbed till he sat on her chest, squeezing the hysteria out, chasing the light away.

* * *

"Are you ready to talk?" He lifted her chin from the chilled water, slightly repulsed at her tentative sips.

"Water, please." She croaked, attempting to duck back down. He held her shoulders against the tile with one hand while grabbing the extendable shower head, pointing the icy jet towards her open mouth. She sighed in raptous relief, snorting gently at whatever moisture found its way into her sinuses. He pulled it away and left it dangling, welcoming the cold mist.

"What happened to mom and dad?" His tone was much more gentle, careful and quiet. "Cold." Was her reply.

He heaved her out of the bath, clothes dripping and snug. She reached for a towel and shed the damp layers. Andrew turned his head towards the wall, slightly startled at her disregard of modesty. Once the terry cloth was tightly wound she stepped out, offering the brackish water a sparring glance.

"They're gone." His head snapped back to her, hands reaching to grip her elbows.

"How long were you in the floor?" He must have seen the splinters beneath her nails.

"A day, I couldn't remember how I'd gotten in." She paused then, stare suddenly accusatory.

"Amanda I would have come sooner but…" He trailed off then, at a loss for words. He tried a few more times before wrapping her in his arms.

"Why was I in the bath tub?" She asked quietly after a few minutes of silence.

"You were in shock," He mumbled from her towel clad shoulder. "You were screaming and hitting me so hard I thought you'd snapped." Her rough grip on his back tightened, squeezing his tense muscles painfully in punishment. She would never be able to vocalize the agony he left her to but she could at least make him hurt.

Andrew forced her to lie in her bed while he moved the bodies outside. She had clamped her hands over her ears as soon as he began to talk, focussing her attention instead on the quilt beneath her. Sleep did not come, no matter how still she lay or how hard she screwed her eyes shut. Eventually she stood, ripping at the light cords and toppling the lamps. This time in the thick blanket of darkness, she slept.


	2. Chapter 2

The food ran out quickly, already picked apart by scavengers amongst the angry throng, followed quickly by amiability between the two. Amanda was unable to reconcile this new Andrew with the one she had said good bye to four years ago. His new vigilance, the gang tattoos, the habits picked up from his dark cell. He boarded up the windows and doors, muttering constantly while he did so. Occasionally he would forget himself, where he was and it was then that she was the most frightened.

Sometimes he would try to strike up a casual conversation, questions about how school was going on the east coast, about any potential boyfriends. He talked as if they weren't going to die, well as if she wasn't going to die atleast. Amanda held no illusions that he would be able to save her or that he would try. Other times he would try to apologize, swear up and down that he wouldn't let anything happen to her, that he loved her. She wasn't sure which was worse.

"Where's Amanda huh?" He'd taunt. "Where'd she go?" This was usually followed by him ruffling her hair and snorting. She would usually shrug it off.

"I'm right here idiot." She'd say, voice flat.

"That's not what I meant." He'd shake his head and go find something else to tear apart or nail together, maybe some bottles to shoot at. "Good thing about this revolution, free ammo." She didn't find it nearly as funny.

"Amanda," She looked up at him from the kitchen table, setting down the hard rind of bread she'd been attempting to choke down. His hair was slicked back under a baseball cap, back pack slung over his left shoulder. "I'm going to get more supplies, they've been dropping shipments of food off by the docks."

"How long are you gonna be gone?" She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, the familiar pricks of panic setting in.

"Not too long probably just a few hours. Don't worry about it just stay up in your room and lock the back door behind me."

She shook her head. "Why board up everything but leave an entire door? You think people won't come back? You think they can't find an entire friggen back entrance?"

"I have a certain reputation Amanda, no one's stupid enough to come back here and I can't just seal us in. Lock it behind me and then hide in your room." He gave her a hard look before turning towards the back hall. She followed him sluggishly, watching his retreating back before flipping the dead bolt. It was so unfair, he could travel free while she was cooped up in the house. She hadn't even done anything wrong, anything worthy of being hunted like an animal. Of course she wasn't obtuse, it was clear that their familial wealth had poisoned the citizens of Gotham against them. They hadn't even been that wealthy to be honest. Amanda would classify it more as comfortable, definitely better off than plenty of the populace but not obscene or extravagant in the least. She felt an incredible distaste, utter disgust, repulsion at the other inhabitants of her home city. They were pathetic and capricious, becoming frenzied and volatile at the words of one freak. He had blown apart a stadium, murdering needlessly and these idiots had rallied behind him. They had eaten up his insane diatribe and become monsters themselves. There was no unity here, no sense of community or humanity, only a dying civilization trying to eat itself.

She lay on her floor, arms and legs spread wide, letting the hate wash over her. Her families money shouldn't have elicited this kind of reaction but there is no reasoning with a mob, there is no safety when everyone froths at the mouth for violence. Her money hadn't hurt them this much, her parents were dead and it wasn't their own fault. Her mothers blood had dripped on her face like warm rain, it had run down her cheeks and it was Gotham's fault. It hadn't just been criminals in her house that day, from beneath their feet she had recognized a few voices. A few tears escaped now, she wouldn't pretend she was too hardened or sealed up to cry. She allowed herself these private moments to let the extraordinary grief ravage her. She would lie here, letting the torture go on for as long as she could stand it before seeking Andrew. She would never tell him what she really thought of the revolution, his disapproval would be explosive. He would rant and rave about opinions that he had been spoon fed, about the greed and corruption of the rich.

"You know we're technically rich." She would interrupt, earning a sheepish look.

"No you and I aren't, well I mean we are but- listen Amanda we're different. We don't look down our noses at everyone and we don't flaunt what isn't even rightfully ours. You were always sweet to people who didn't have as much, you never asked the parents to cater to you. I on the other hand always got along with the guys no one likes, the criminals and the kids people are scared of. I always liked being around people who actually suffered, feels real."

"Yeah because you like to play martyr." Her tone terse, he would get carried away at that.

"Look at you! Pretending you know so much just because you're in college. Do you think you're better than me? Maybe two weeks ago you were but now I'm a king and people want you dead." His finger had jabbed at her chest.

"You really gotta ditch the holier than thou attitude you've got goin Amanda, it's exactly what fucked up mom and dad." She had thrown a chair at him then, wailing and screaming before dropping to her knees and vomiting on the oriental rug. He had dragged her to the kitchen then, running a damp cloth over her mouth and apologizing. He had cried too, later as he picked up the splintered chair when he didn't know she was watching.

He was right though, about a few things. She was alone, alone in all her anger and pain. No one would sympathize with a poor little rich girl, no one would stitch her up or remind her to eat, no one except Andrew. She needed him badly, she had become his burden. She rolled onto her stomach, the cool wood crushing her breasts and squishing the tip of her nose. Maybe it was the ache, the discomfort she needed to finally be at peace because it was then that she fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

It was the cold that woke her. She sat up slowly, assessing the aches and pains earned from the hard bed she had chosen. The electricity had been shut off days ago, plunging the nights into the negatives. She stood up stiffly, cracking her various joints along the way before reaching for a blanket. As she coiled the duvet tightly around her body, she hazarded a glance at the gilded mirror above her bed. Dark circles thick as bruises ringed her eyes, a few blemishes forming beneath her skin from the lack of available soap or water coupled with the bloodshot, watery quality her eyes had adapted made for a gruesome picture. She ran a hand through her hair, cut to just below her shoulders and meticulously dyed near white with a toothbrush and some peroxide, she was unrecognizable. A moment of vanity struck her, as she stood assessing her haggard (post-apocalyptic) features, she felt a pull of anxiety. She would be murdered in this empty house, hair shorn and bleached, looking bewildered and dreadful. The blanket pooled around her ankles as she pulled her shoulders back. Chest out, hair rumpled, eyes narrow, lips pouted. Could she pull of the helpless hostage look? Maybe a little dirt smudged and sweaty, still dangerous though. Sharp as a razor with wide eyes the colour of…of…well there's nothing particularily stunning that comes in a shade of brown but eye colour isn't that important anyways. She turned around and gave her underwear clad bottom a thorough look. Well it wasn't exactly big, kinda bony to be honest. She clenched her glutes, hoping to give it a bit more shape. Oh god no no NO no clenching never again look at that cellulite just pop up, where does that even come from-

A loud crash halted her shallow inner monologue. She dropped to the ground, eyes wide with horror as she crawled to the doorway. She forgot how to breath, blink, swallow as she crouched in the dark frame, cautiously peeking towards the stair case. She heard quick footsteps, only one pair however before a loud clatter indicated something dropping to the ground. Andrew, she nearly cried with relief. It had clearly taken him more than a few hours, she noted glancing out the window at the inky landscape. She stood slowly, legs still wobbly from the tidal wave of adrenaline. She headed towards the stairs, hand gripping the bannister as she gently made her way down. She knew the house like the back of her hand but the lack of lighting was a huge hindrance.

"Andrew?" She called into the foyer. "That took forever, let me come with you next time."

She caught sight of his gun strewn across the ground. She toed in gently, marvelling at it's size. It's size…this was bigger than Andrew's pistol, a lot bigger. In fact she was hadn't even known he's owned an AK-47 which was odd seeing as it wasn't exactly easily concealed. A cold gust hit her from the side as she turned to see the front door smashed open, the wood seemingly ripped in half.

"Girl." She whipped around, a scream escaping her lips before she clapped both hands over her mouth. Her breath was ragged as she caught sight of her intruder, of him, of the masked man. He stood a distance away, his hulking frame consuming the kitchen doorway. She hadn't realized her family mattered that much, so much so that the head hancho himself would come for her.

"Please-" She gasped, "Please I'm sorry I'm so sorry don't- don't…" She faltered slightly when she noticed a shiny dark patch on the shoulder of his shearling coat, wet looking and growing ever so slightly. He glanced down at his shoulder before speaking.

"Ah yes, regrettable. I require your assistance." He said simply, walking towards her. She shrunk slightly, feet inching backwards. He either didn't notice her terror or chose to ignore it.

"If you would be so kind as to provide me with first aid supplies." He canted his head to the side, expression expectant. His tone brooking no argument. Her back hit the wall then, she attempted to peer around him, to the gun on the ground. Too fucking far away. Amanda nodded slightly before stepping slowly into the opposite hallway, the one furthest from him. She padded towards the bathroom, vision blurred and heart racing. She felt as though she had stepped into the twilight zone, a murderous monster hunting down her family, her kinsmen, was standing in her house asking for help. His wound didn't seem serious enough to be life threatening seeing as how he could still speak and walk just fine, she was trapped. Maybe he would ask her to fix him up before shooting her in the face, add a certain flavour of humiliation to the whole thing.

She opened the cabinets and reached for the bulky first aid kit, brimming with supplies courtesy of her slightly paranoid mother. She knew there were supplies for sutures and antiseptic cream, it didn't take a genius to wager that's what he was looking for. As she heaved it against her chest she realized she wasn't wearing pants. The sheer embarrassment was dizzying, her head spinning she tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. What was she even doing walking around in her boyshorts when it was this cold anyways? She couldn't even remember taking her jeans off but they had been crumpled on her floor. Her stomach churned she slowly stepped back out into the hall, clutching the plastic box at an awkward thigh level in an attempt to regain a shred of dignity. She had a horrifying thought then, what if he raped her. What if she sewed him up and he pinned her down before killing her? She had to steady herself against the wall.

"Having difficulties?" She jolted at that, eyes wide as she hurried back to the foyer towards his booming voice. He was perched in an armchair, heavy jacket lying across his knees watching her with what she assumed was a tolerant amusement. She set the box on the ground beside him, jerking her shirt downwards as she straightened.

"It would seem I caught you at an inopportune time, no matter. Is this your house?" His gaze was hard as steel as he reached for the kit.

"No," She said sharply before catching herself. She clutched at her throat roughly. "Me and my brother just found it." Her fingers twitched at the lie.

"My brother and I." He corrected lightly, pulling open the white lid and pawing through the supplies.

"Have you ever stitched a wound?" She shook her head before realizing he wasn't looking at her.

"No I haven't. But I've watched my mom do it."

"Was she a doctor?" He extracted a swage, pulling at the plastic covering till the thin thread and sharp curve lay in his palm.

"My grandma was a nurse and my brother was always getting into fights. Mom patched him up." Her voice squeaked slightly and she gripped the column of her throat tighter, forcing down the thick glue like saliva. He motioned her over to his side until she was standing directly infront of his torn arm. Her nose scrunched in disgust, the muscle and skin were pulpy and ripped. The edges jagged and fiery red.

"A common criminal with remarkably bad aim, a rather small impediment for me but quite unfortunate for him." His chin rested on his folded hands after handing her the delicately coiled thread.

"Someone shot you?!" He chuckled at her disbelief.

"Unintentionally. I confiscated his gun as you can see," His head motioned slightly to the disposed fire arm. "Now reach into the kit and look for a pair of scissors and some iodine." She did as she was told, pulling a foot stool beneath her as she collected her effects.

He walked her through the slow process of tearing into his skin, watching her carefully as she trembled through her first surgeon's knot. She snipped each thread carefully before moving onto the next inch of skin. She was amazed at his control, the way his hands remained relaxed, his eyes focussing only on her sloppy hand, voice level and slow. When she was finished she forced herself to meet his gaze.

"Do you need anything for pain?" He seemed surprised at her question, quirking an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"I'm quite well supplied my dear." He gently tapped the front of his mask and for the first time she let her gaze slip, tracing the glinting tubes. She had been too frightened to hazard a glance at it earlier, fearing that it would send him into some kind of rage. She caught his gaze again before reaching for the iodine. Her fingers fumbled with the small bottle as she doused a cotton ball with the thick liquid. She gently blotted the wound till it was thoroughly saturated.

"Where is this brother of yours?" Her eyes flickered back to his before she tucked the bottle back in the plastic case, closing the lid and snapping the locks shut.

"He went out for food this morning, he must have gotten held up or something. He gets distracted easily." Her tone sounded almost airy, uncaring. Something about knowing he was soon going to strangle her or bend her over a chair seemed to evaporate her reserves. He cut a menacing figure and she was sure there was no way she could hope to fight him. He was terrifying indeed, but there were worse people out there. Her thoughts drifted to the other 'visitors' this house had seen. In his hands she trembled but in theirs she'd quake. Maybe he would even spare her for her kindness, for helping him in his time of need.

"So you're alone?" Her false bravado deflated at that moment. Yes she was very alone, no one around for miles. He could do anything, he could punish her for hours…

"He'll be back soon." She whispered. He patted her hand gently which was currently gripping her knee cap in a vice like hold.

"Do not worry, you have given me no reason to harm you. There are many who would show no mercy to the wounded, myself included." He lifted his coat from his lap and draped it over her exposed legs.

"There are some who would take advantage of a young vulnerable woman such as yourself. Especially one in such a state of undress." Her cheeks burned and he gave a slight chuckle. She ran her fingers along the soft jacket, marvelling at its warmth and vast size. She raised her head and peered at him, hands stilling.

"Would you?" Her voice was low, it took all her strength to keep her gaze steady.

"My hobbies don't tend to skirt that area of depravity." She sensed the topic was finished, his returning look almost dismissive before he turned his attention to his arm.

"Your kindness is appreciated, it may have not been genuine but it has spared you uneeded anguish. I will leave my jacket here as it would only irritate the stitches. Keep it safe." He was already on his feet, striding throught the ravaged door and into the frosty night before she could truly process what he had said.

"Wait!" She yelled, jumping up and struggling to lift his incredibly heavy coat.

He wasn't done with her apparently.

**Just want to say thanks to everyone reading this! I loved TDKR and thought I'd write up a story about my new favourite villain. This may be minor but seeing as I am Canadian I do tend to drift towards using the metric system and inserting u's into every second word. Sorry if it's distracting! Also another big apology about some of the syntax and awkwardishness of the sentence structure, I threw this together this morning without editing very carefully. Anyways review if you feel like it, follow or favourite if it strikes your fancy!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the long wait! I was stuck with a bit of writers block but I've struck gold and decided upon the direction I want this story to go. Anyways enough of my talking, here's chapter three:**

It was with incredible trepidation that Amanda stepped outside. Swimming in winter layers scavenged from the basement she carefully pushed open the back door. The bitter wind whistled through the barren trees, swirling snow in its wake. She walked carefully till she came to a large tree, looming and shockingly green. She ran her hands along the closest branches, stripping the soft needles and depositing them in her pockets. Eventually when her fingers were stained green, clothes fragrant and fresh with earth, she allowed herself a moment to be still. The chill was sharp in her nostrils, pulling at her sinuses and tearing through her throat. She sat in the snow, savouring the way it soaked her jeans and sapped the warmth from her marrow. She put small handfuls of it in her mouth, holding it against her tongue till it became a distilled taste of city and winter.

Andrew was still gone. Andrew wasn't coming back. He had left three days ago and since then she had begun to spiral into starvation. She was equal parts satisfied with the noticeable gap between her thighs and distraught with the deflation of her breasts but the fear of death had reached her, putting her vanities on hold. She shovelled large handfuls of snow past her cracked lips now, a weak relative of anger awakened within her chest. If she had more strength, more energy to give she would be furious with him, but apart from hunger apathy was her only companion these days. Maybe he was dead, shot down in the docks by some gang banger or beaten to death by an inmate he'd rubbed the wrong way. It was with a small sliver of guilt that Amanda secretly hoped he was killed; it would assuage the betrayal of being abandoned by her only living family.

She stood after a few long moments, ignoring the creaks and cracks accompanying her decaying body as she trudged back to the house. It took a second to become adjusted to the dark, her pupils contracting slowly, just as dilapidated as the rest of her. She unwound her thick wool scarf, kicking her mother's too large boots into a forgotten corner and padded towards the only source of warmth, a softly crackling fire fed by broken furniture. She had gently coaxed one from the meticulous shavings of a chair leg the night after Andrew's disappearance. It burned hungrily in the foyer fireplace, casting the high vaulted ceilings with twisted shadows and an orange glow. The fire had proved to be just as ravenous as its creator, razing bookshelves and chairs till Amanda was too weak to draw warmth from it, curling up to watch it simmer to coals instead. But it wasn't the fire that stopped her in her tracks; it wasn't even the cracked open front door. It was a small gym bag set in the middle of the floor and a certain missing shearling coat.

"Oh god," She whispered. Her feet began to move on their own accord, closing the distance between her and the bag. She knelt on the waxed hard wood, fingers trembling as she sought the zipper. Her heart pounded against her pronounced ribcage, mind immediately jumping to outlandish possibilities.

Part of her was sure that Andrew's severed head would peek up at her from the thick clothe while another was certain the unveiling would reveal a ticking bomb, much like the one destroying their city. She pulled the zipper towards her, the flaps folding away and leaving her in awe. He had brought her food. Her hands dove in to the wrist, fishing out smooth colourful wrappers and soft loaves of bread. She squealed with delight when she extracted a bar of soap, hugging it to her grime coated chest. Once the small bag was empty she took stock of her precious supplies; four bottles of water, two loaves of white bread, a small jar of peanut butter, a glass jar of strawberry jam, two tins of ravioli, a small bag of dense biscuits, a bag of apples, a bar of soap and a small hair brush. She tore into the biscuits, savouring the rich treat before devouring two apples.

She had polished off a bottle of water before reigning in herself control, piling the precious food back into the bag and taking the brush to her hair. She had avoided mirrors as of late but could tell it was incredibly filthy. The lack of activity hadn't prevented her body from finding a way to dirty itself. As the organs weakened and the muscles deteriorated a thick film of foul smelling sweat had begun to cover her limbs, released at the slightest of movements and drying slowly and gelatinously upon her skin.

Once her lank hair was smoothed back she made her way over to the front door, closing it before shoving the heavy wardrobe back against it. Obviously it hadn't hindered the masked man's entrance but petty thieves might be deterred. She panted against the polished wood; pressing her forehead against it till her peripherals no longer swam and he limbs quit shivering. She had to keep moving, had to stay active before the hunger reared its ugly head or the weakness set back in. Her limbs were light, head clear and pulse steady. She felt almost human again.

Grabbing two large pots from the kitchen, Amanda shouldered her way out into the backyard once again, foregoing her previous layers as she eagerly filled the pots with snow. Once they overflowed she heaved them back inside, only giving herself time to rest after they had been shoved in the coals, heating and simmering slowly. She stripped her ragged clothes and set them aside before scooping the handfuls of pine needles she'd collected earlier and sprinkling the small bits of greenery across the surface of the smaller pot. Once the water was hot she slowly withdrew one of the vessels, sloshing the tepid water across her shins. She carefully scrubbed her hair in the scalding water before scouring the rest of her body, lathering till the suds ran white across her skin. She cupped the remaining murky water in her hands, letting it fall across her face and belly. She left a dripping trail as she made her way from the living room to the kitchen, procuring a cracked mug from the ruined cabinets. She made her way back to the epicenter of activity quickly, removing her make shift kettle before feeding the fire two chair legs, blowing gently on the coals to displace the ashes. Once the timid fingers of flame began to lick at the dry wood she sat back, scooping the hot mixture from the pot with her cup. She felt a certain power then, slick and slippery, hair dripping down her back, lips pursed against the bitter tea. She was fed and bathed, content and warm.

Her mind began to wander then, finally free of the shackles of need. She didn't know why he did it or how he knew that she even needed food but he had most definitely thrown her for a loop. She lay down across the wood, index finger lazily circling the dip of her belly button. She had been afraid to even think his name, to acknowledge who he really was, but something had shifted in the last few hours. Something about the cavernous empty house, the weight of her loneliness and his unexpected kindness seemed to jab at her psyche.

"Bane." She whispered. If she had been listening carefully she would have noticed that the house whispered back.

* * *

He caught her unaware, as usual. She had repeated her tactics from the day before, this time filling two leviathan containers. She used the broken back of a dining chair as a jagged washing board and began scrubbing her soiled clothes. There was some semblance of normalcy to it, eat breakfast do laundry maybe take a walk. Her walks were limited to the house, stretching out her joints in the attic or sifting through old pictures in the basement. The clothes had piled up quickly, some scavenged from her dad's or brother's closet. Never from her mothers.

The front door creaked and groaned as a heavy shoulder shoved against it, pushing the wardrobe back a few feet with apparent ease. She paused, forearms hanging in the hot water, melting soap slippery in her palm. He managed to make a Bane sized gap before striding in, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped a distance from her, eyes roaming to the opened duffel back and the filmy water.

"Hello." She said quietly, biting her tongue as soon as the word left her lips.

"I see you've put my gifts to use." He sounded pleased, as if he'd expected to find them flung on the street.

"Thank you by the way, for the food and everything." She mopped her forehead with a pruned hand, slicking her fly aways to her temple. He nodded, eyes not leaving her form. A heavy silence followed, Amanda glanced around nervously, wondering if she'd perhaps done something wrong.

"I'd offer you a place to sit but…" She trailed off awkwardly, gesturing towards the scattered remains of comfort strewn across the hard wood. A slight twinge of embarrassment crept through her voice for some inexplicable reason. He shook his head slightly, surveying the winding staircase and polished banisters.

"I have not seen this in good light. Such opulence." He was staring at her with shrewd, searching eyes. She feared he'd read her panicked face, detect the lies before they had the chance to be spoken. She chose to glare down at her fingers, gently squeezing and shifting the slick soap.

"What is your name?" He was much closer now, looming over her pot.

"Amanda." She answered quietly, gazing up at him in trepidation. When it became apparent that she was only going to grant him her first name he began to rock back on his heels.

"I suppose you hold the right to a certain degree of anonymity. Has your brother returned Amanda?" Her shoulders hunched forward immediately. She resumed scrubbing the clothes with renewed vigour.

"No." She replied shortly, flinging the dripping blouse into the rinse pot aggressively. She grabbed a pair of underwear; cheeks burning slightly as she violently shoved them into the cloudy water, away from his prying eyes. Her knuckles caught against a mercilessly sharp spear of wood and she gasped as the skin tore. She pressed her bleeding, sudsy fingers against her lips, sucking at the wounds. Her cheeks hollowed slightly against the acrid wax of soap, lips puckered and slick with red tinged film. He suddenly kneeled before her, taking her fist in his own and examining the injury. Her fingers spasmed slightly at his touch, tendons rigid and popping.

"Flesh wound." He declared quietly, plucking a relatively clean shirt from the pile and pressing it to the ragged edges, effectively staunching the trickle of blood. She withdrew her hand, curling it against her chest as she stared at him with the expression of a wounded bird. He stayed where he was infront of her. She had the distinct feeling that he was trying to crowd her, force her to acknowledge his unspoken questions.

"His name is Andrew," She began timidly. "I was visiting him before I went back to college for the fall."

He was still as a statue, showing neither interest nor boredom with her story.

"He was at Blackgate. He was one of the inmates you released." He seemed pleased with this admittance, sitting back slightly and letting out a small 'Ahhh'.

"So he was one of the wrongfully imprisoned." He surmised, palms resting flat on his massive knees.

"Not exactly." She said simply, watching his slightly puzzled expression carefully. His incarceration was none of this man's business, she may be blood but that didn't mean she hadn't been cheered at the thought of his years spent dwindling behind bars.

"It's the reason he had to go look for food, he knows some of those people. A lot of them are his friends. But it's also why I can't leave this house." He raised a brow questioningly, giving her the time she needed but making it clear she couldn't bypass this topic.

"I'm the reason he was in jail." She broke the scalding eye contact then, lifting the fabric against her fingers and setting it on the ground beside her, rubbing the cuts carefully. She resumed scrubbing, much more cautious and carefully this time, treating her smarting hand with kid gloves.

"There is rarely justice in the judicial system. What are you studying?" She was taken aback by his change of subject, by his lazily sprawled legs but especially by his curious tone.

"Business, I was thinking of becoming an accountant or something equally as boring." Her unintentional use of past tense felt slightly wrenching, freezing her pruned digits for a moment.

"Very sensible but disappointing." His short little assessments were becoming slightly maddening.

"What? You think wasting my parent's money and getting a useless degree would be nobler?" She snapped. "That proves nothing but naivety. Maybe you could refer me to the doctorate level terrorism courses you took."

Her head snapped up, brain always a few seconds behind her errant mouth. "I'm sorry." She whispered, horror chugging through her veins, thick and corrosive.

"No you aren't," He replied simply, head tilting ever so slightly as he appraised her. "Which is curious, are you not frightened of me? Many feign bravery or even ignorance but I see neither in you."

"I am…" She began weakly. "I am scared of you, I mean anyone would be."

"Yet you sit here and converse as if I was an unexpected guest, you accept my gift without question or suspicion and I have yet to see a single tear or hear a heartfelt plea. Do you doubt my abilities?"

"I know you could kill me-" Her voice was quiet, solemn.

"I could do much worse than just kill you." It took her a moment to process his comment. It wasn't threatening or cruel, it almost took the form of a careless wayward comment, thrown in thoughtlessly.

"There's things you can't do." The words barely made it past her lips, twisting and coiling around her tongue. "Things that they can do, things that would be much worse than your torture."

"Torture is torture; I could be just as cruel." His eyes drifted to her breasts, lingering there. When they met her gaze again she saw no lust, no want or desire there. Just curiosity cut with the sharp blade of intrigue.

"Sometimes it's not about what the torture is, sometimes it's about who does it." Her tongue so thick and awkward, stumbling along her words, muddling them up and delivering them with uncertainty.

"I am not the fuel of your nightmares? I draw no terror from your bones? Does your heart not race in my presence?" Her head shook slightly, of course she feared him. But there were much worse monsters under the bed.

"Why is that?" His legs shifted beneath him, folding and crossing in an incredible expanse of hard khaki.

"With you here he can't get me."

"Who?"

"You also look nothing like him." She cracked a slight smile then, returning her focus to the dripping clothes near the fire, she scooted over to them, hanging them higher on the coarse stones as they dried. He would have no appreciation of her comment but it was indeed comical, comparing the two. Bane tall and covering in rolling, coiling muscle. It was almost no contest against her personal Lucifer, short and spry, messy hair and nervous brown eyes. She was gripped with a dizzying bout of confidence then; she spun around, giggling slightly as her knees burned against the floor.

"Do you want me to be scared of you Bane?" She reached into the now cold water, retrieving the balled up lacy underwear and laid it across the rocks as streams of water ran from it. Something about it was obscene and disgusting; she hoped he felt uncomfortable then.

"I'm unsure; your rationales are intriguing although slightly misguided. You should never assume that physical difficulties indicate differences in character."

"Yes but there are differences in personality, in attitude. You could do what he, what they, would do but it would be different."

"How so?" A faint wave of disbelief mingled with repulsion flooded her. The way they were talking about her hypothetical rape, so cavalier so non-chalant. She was facing him again, pulling armfuls of sopping clothes against her front as she moved them to the fire. Her damp chest rose sharply now, wet clothes clinging almost mockingly. Her body was a sharp weapon, one that was used against her. The ability to overpower a man with her feminine wiles was an alien concept. She had only ever felt the sharp stinging blade biting into her own skin.

"I don't think you'd enjoy it." She said simply. "That's the difference. If it was just a tool for you, if it was just physical for you it would be different. There are others who would enjoy it; it wouldn't just be physical for them. When it's that selfish, when I'm a faceless victim, that's what scares me." She pushed the half empty pots away with her feet, pinching her wet clothes away from her skin.

"You draw quick conclusions, what separates me from the masses?" She was beginning to think the only conversation he was capable of having was one filled with one sided questions. Probably a habit picked up from countless violent interrogations.

"Well I can't pretend to know anything about you."

"You already have." She drew in a deep breath.

"Some men…most men can be easily distracted. I don't think you can be." He shifted again, this time resting his arms against the floor behind him, wide chest pushed towards her. Her eyes drifted over his pulsing lats, the strained biceps and thickly corded veins that surged beneath his skin. His stance was confident and slightly proud. She had a feeling her assumption had fed his ego in some warped way.

"I wouldn't advise being lulled into false security Amanda; it is those who have lived cushioned lives who make the quickest assumptions." His eyes smoldered, a deep undercurrent of warning ran within them. She couldn't see his mouth but could sense he wasn't finished speaking.

"It would be a shame to have to disillusion you."

* * *

**I'm not sure what kind of Bane I want to write quite yet. I'm a huge fan of tons of other Bane centric fics here but I feel that there's only one of two scenes I can draw true inspiration from. Bane's use of "theatricality and deception" on the inhabitants of Gotham (uninitiated) are his main scenes. The only times I feel that he is genuine in the movie is when he's speaking to Bruce, a technical member of the league. I want to create something that feels real and with each chapter I'm discovering something about his character. It's pretty interesting but please let me know what you think! Let me know if you think he's being OOC or if my assumptions are totally off, he's a complicated character who is proving pretty tough to shell out. Anyways classes begin soon and work is sucking up a lot of my time, so updates might have a few gaps!  
**


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